


sleeping in

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 22:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “Who are you trying to convince?”Jon gives up, letting his head sag against Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”aka Elias gets tired of Jon and Tim's bickering, sends them away for a "team-building" weekend trip, and is sure to book them a room with only one bed





	sleeping in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emperiocism](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=emperiocism).



“Well, this fucking sucks.”

Jon agrees, even if he doesn’t say as much out loud. The bed is comfortable, but they’re both curled up on the respective edges of each side of it and Tim, at least, is radiating the same, old anger of the weeks past. Jon… can’t quite manage it, or manage to lodge a verbal complaint like either of them had been earlier this week.

Elias ordering them on mandatory leave for the weekend might have seemed like a joke compared to everything else that had been happening to them, but their ‘team-building,’ as Elias had put it, was very much a reality. Apparently, he’d gotten tired of their working relationship, too. So, a weekend away as a strengthening exercise; a _wellness weekend,_ Elias had amended, when Tim took particular offense to it being anything other than an excuse to get them out of the archives.

Jon isn’t sure he trusts Elias– definitely doesn’t trust Elias– on his motivations behind the ruse, but… he’s just tired, now. The hired car had taken them straight from work, and Bristol was a good two and three quarters off. It had gotten late. Late enough after a day of work and travel to want to change and crawl into bed, and Tim had followed suit after mightily having a go at the fact there was _only_ one bed.

At this juncture, Jon doesn’t care. He’ll stay on his side, and Tim seems completely unlikely to go anywhere near the unspoken middle boundary of the mattress. They just need to sleep. It’s only a weekend. With Thursday almost over, it’s only three days here. They’ll be meeting, separately, with a counselor in the morning. Special PT on Saturday. Sunday was, evidently, theirs to spend as they saw fit, and the car would pick them up Monday morning. Elias had said they were free to take Monday off as well, but Jon planned to go in, regardless, even if it ended up being a late start.

Right now, he just has to get through the weekend.

Tim grumps from his side of the bed, and the mattress creaks as he moves. Presumably grabbing his phone from the nightstand to set an alarm for morning, if the next question is anything to go by. “What time’s the therapist?”

“My appointment’s at seven, yours at eight.”

“God,” Tim breathes. “I can’t believe he’s doing this. I’ve already got an appointment lined up with my usual, why do I need _this?_ I don’t _want_ another therapist.”

Jon blinks, groggy and a little bleary without his glasses. “Another.” He truly does not mean the word to come so accusatory, but it’s a fault, these days.

“What, didn’t _know_ I go to therapy? Didn’t figure that in your little surveillance sessions?” The breath of air is annoyance, and derision, and Tim sets his phone back on the nightstand. “Then again, it’s only a monthly thing, so easy to miss. I’m not like Martin. Can’t go talk to someone every time we’re in crisis, because we’re _always_ in crisis.”

He’s sarcastic, and bitter, and… it’s true, Jon thinks tiredly. He’s always in crisis, too. But then he supposes that _does_ explain why Martin talks about counseling so often. Never details, but always appointments, with the Institute-provided specialist. Prentiss’s attack at their job had really… taken a toll on him. All of them, really; Sasha’s the only one who seems to be unaffected by the whole thing, but he suspects that's not even as clear-cut as it seems. How can it be?

Jon, who hasn’t been to counseling since he was a very young child, licks his lips to speak. “Does it help?”

He expects the answer even before Tim laughs, derisive, and lets the poison come bitter on his tone when he responds, “not a bit, _boss._ Not a goddamn bit.”

Jon swallows down a spark of agony, anger and anguish both, and settles in to sleep.

It’s easier said than done. He’s oddly exhausted, but still has a hard time dozing off and squirms awake every few hours in his uneasiness. Sleeping in different places has always been _difficult,_ the first day there, anyway, so he blames that, and Tim’s presence behind him. They aren’t anywhere near touching, but it’s more a mental thing than a physical one, and Jon hasn’t slept with someone… in _any_ capacity… in a very long time.

He’s properly sleep-deprived when his alarm goes off, and the headache is still pounding beneath his skull by the time he drags himself out of the shower. Tim’s awake at that juncture, still curled in bed and scrolling through his phone with a glazed look in his eyes that says he slept just about as well as Jon had. He barely spares Jon a glance as he resurfaces from the bathroom, and then curls up tighter, and looks back at his phone. 

Jon leaves him to it. He packs away his morning things and goes to grab something from the breakfast bar, a chocolate chip muffin and a proper cup of tea. It is so very quiet, devoid of the… looming threat of danger at home, and Jon lingers a little longer in hopes it’ll dispel the tense weariness and throbbing beneath his temples. It does not.

Tim’s barely moved when he goes back to their room. He has abandoned his phone near his pillow, and rolled to face the other way. For a moment, Jon thinks he looks even more exhausted than _he_ feels. Then he dismisses that thought, and goes to dig the pain pills from his bag. He’s used to headaches, these days, but this feels like a special kind of hell waiting if he ignores it. He doesn’t want to spend the weekend with Tim _and_ a migraine.

He’s just pressing the pills free of the foil when he notices Tim’s watching. “Headache.” He offers the explanation to break the silence, something he hadn’t even bothered with _good morning_ over. Then again, Tim hadn’t been _staring_ and awaiting a good morning. Not that Jon knows what he’s staring for now, but he’s almost guaranteed it’s not a greeting.

But then, the response gives him an answer. “You, too,” Tim sighs, and drags his fingers through his hair.

Ah. No wonder he looks as tired as Jon feels. He finally pops the pills out, and holds up the package in question.

The nuisance of the headache overpowers the annoyance of accepting the offer, evidently; Tim makes a tiny face of annoyance, before shrugging, and holding out his hand. “Need somethin’ to get through the day, I guess.”

“It’s just Panadol.” Still, he hands it over, and Tim finally coaxes himself up in preparation to get out of bed.

“Yeah, well, I’ll chase it with a coffee or three,” he says, and plucks at the blister packaging, clumsy, as he vanishes into the bathroom.

Jon can’t even fault him. He might make use of the tea service for a third cup before he heads out, but he’s got time, and therapy’s just a five minute walk away.

In the end, he does have another cuppa, after Tim gets ready for the day and comes and goes from breakfast himself. Jon figures he ought to start over early to therapy, just in case there’s paperwork or something– trust Elias to need actual, _physical_ proof that he and Tim didn’t just _skip out–_ and can’t stop himself from warning Tim, returned and dressed but sprawled out across the bed again, “don’t go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, thanks, mom,” Tim retorts, not looking up from his phone.

Jon sighs, and scowls, and grabs his key to go.

Friday, as it is, does not go any better. Counseling is a lot like he remembers from the very vague recollection he does have, except he’s now an adult and treated with… some kind of indifference that had been absent when he was younger. He thinks he must imagine that the look on the therapist’s– who’s a nice woman, he’s sure– face mirrors the way it had when he’d been in fresh after his parent’s deaths. There’s no way he could remember _that_ kind of detail. He can barely remember his parents as it is.

But he doesn’t want to think about his childhood. That hadn’t been the _point._ Although, after settling back into their room, Jon still isn’t _quite_ sure what the point _had_ been. Tim had been right. It hadn’t helped anything. There was no miracle cure for them, and Jon never _had_ liked talking.

Tim had spent the day doing something away from the room, and Jon had researched on old cases given the fact he had very studiously been denied taking _any_ current casework with him this weekend. _“You can go one weekend without recording a statement, Jon, trust me. It won’t kill you.”_ For some reason, Elias had seemed overly _amused_ when he’d said that, and Jon had been of a mind to sneak some files out, anyway. He hadn’t.

But he… he isn’t used to having free time.

He ends up walking for awhile, wandering the streets on his own. It isn’t spectacular, but Bristol is… so very unlike home. Unlike his neighborhood and the Institute’s combined; somewhere between the two, he thinks he’s forgotten peace actually exists. Bristol is nice, though. He appreciates the fresh air. It clears his head after the morning he’s had, and somehow, even the River Avon looks _far_ more intriguing than the Thames.

Still.

Friday _night_ does not go any better in terms of sleep. He crawls into bed early, even before Tim gets back from wherever he’s gone (the pub, undoubtedly.) But then Tim wakes him up– accidentally, with an actual apology muttered under his breath– when he finally gets in and sleep comes sporadically again.

When he finally does manage to drop off proper, he dreams about the river, and the water turns to waves and waves of worms as they flee down abandoned tunnels. The next thing he’s aware of, he’s wrenching his eyes open to the dark hotel room, and Tim’s staring at him with something indecipherable on his face. Jon can’t tell without his glasses. 

Either way, Tim’s apparently woken him up from the nightmare, just another nightmare, so he rasps his own apology and rolls onto his back. He’s sweaty, and uncomfortable, and his nerves are still tingling with the now old familiar terror that he shouldn’t be able to feel at this juncture. The old familiar pain in his leg, and the gnawing sensation at all the scars littering his skin, and he thinks physical therapy is going to be hell come afternoon.

He takes a breath, shaky, and tries not to think about it.

Tim says nothing, just eases himself back into the pillows, and folds an arm beneath his head. Jon thinks maybe he looks a little perturbed as he stares up at the ceiling, but then Jon looks away, distracting himself by staring up towards the ceiling himself.

It’s not a very good distraction. It’s a very boring ceiling.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to fall back asleep, but he’d swear Tim doesn't manage much better, either.

When he wakes up to his alarm, he’s somehow edged his way into the center of the bed, and he’s half curled up against Tim’s back.

… right.

He blames the nightmares, and rolls back over to his own side with heat simmering low beneath his skin. It’s a good thing Tim’s still asleep, or Jon thinks he’d never live it down.

Physical therapy _is_ hell, and Jon really, _truly_ hates it. He hates Elias for this _wellness retreat,_ for the counseling leading up to _this–_ this absolute massacre of his own fragile sense of security, and he grits his teeth against the ache in his bones after they finally let him leave the session.

“I’m taking a nap,” he announces when he lets himself back into their room, and he still can’t decipher the look on Tim’s face when he says as much. But he doesn’t care. He drags himself to the bed and curls up on top without pulling back the blankets. “Don’t wake me.”

He thinks he might actually sleep this time. It’s either this or a hot shower for the pain, and he knows precisely which one he does not want to bother with. He buries his face in the pillow, and tries to ignore the feeling of Tim’s eyes watching him.

Tim doesn’t make it easy, though. He never does. “… you’re not the only one who’s tired, you know,” he mutters, so low Jon almost doesn’t hear it.

Almost.

“Take a nap, then,” he slurs, without lifting his face from the pillow.

“That’s _not_ what I meant.”

“I know,” he says, weary. It doesn’t seem to be what Tim expects to hear, because it just shuts him up. Jon doesn’t bother saying anything else afterwards.

He doesn’t know when Tim ends up taking his suggestion, but he must do; Jon wakes up a couple hours later and this time, his head is pillowed against _Tim’s_ arm, and he can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. His first reaction is to pull away, and then he just… doesn’t. Because Tim’s warm, and _everywhere,_ and that’s oddly comforting. And Jon is _still_ tired. And Tim had been the one to crawl into bed, too. It’s just as much his fault as it is Jon’s.

And… yes, this time, he doesn’t much mind. He's just so _drained._ He goes back to sleep, for just awhile longer. 

Tim’s awake before he is, and dinner is ordered from room service. They end up watching some terrible, terrible movie that’s playing, partially because it’s what comes on halfway through dinner and neither of them are apparently willing to grab the remote from the TV stand again.

It barely matters.

They’re both quiet through dinner and, somehow, despite sleeping half the day after physical therapy, Jon actually sleeps through the night, too.

“You’re hopeless.”

This time, Tim’s _awake,_ and Jon isn’t quite sure how he keeps ending up _cuddling_ him while they sleep. Either way, there’s no rolling over and pretending he hadn’t been now.

“A real pain in the arse,” Tim continues, and Jon braces for the lecture, and the impending argument that will ensue. This is their common now; a moment’s reprieve and then the acerbic remarks that come after. It’s fair, this time– Jon’s actually managed to curl up against his chest this time, and he’s irked that he’s done it and he’s irked that he actually… enjoys it, a bit. Even ignoring coming off a bad bout of PT, Jon enjoys it in a way he hasn’t let himself enjoy anything similar in a very long time. Then, Tim continues, “do you cuddle everyone you sleep with, or am I just so _lucky?”_

He doesn’t quite relax, but the tension does ease slightly from his shoulders. But he moves to extricate himself from Tim’s personal space– again– because he knows staying there will exacerbate the situation. He reaches to pull the blankets closer in lieu of Tim’s absence of warmth. “I don’t sleep with anyone,” he says, unthinking. And then cringes, as he practically _hears_ Tim’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Why am I _not_ surprised?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Explains a few things. Like why you have such a stick up your arse.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” Jon repeats, vehement, and then is _surprised_ at his own irritation over it. He hasn’t sunk to the level of being offended over perverse questions since he’d been younger… it usually just _flusters_ him, but maybe he’s too tired to even elicit that emotional reaction. Or maybe because it’s Tim, and it’s easier to just be _angry._

“Hopeless,” Tim repeats.

“We’re _both_ hopeless,” he bites off. He doesn’t mean it in a sexual nature; God knows they’ve all heard enough about Tim’s dating and subsequent sexual encounters while at work. So, Tim’s got a one-up on him there. (Jon does _not_ care.) But he doesn’t mean it that way, and Tim _knows_ it. Maybe Jon’s moved away from his chest, but he’s not so far away to avoid feeling the tension flood back into Tim’s body at the words.

_“I’m_ not hopeless,” Tim retorts. _“You’re_ the hopeless one. God, I thought you were bad before, but then this Prentiss thing happened and you _really_ went off the deep end.”

“Well, I am _sorry_ that I’ve been so _affected_ by a flesh worm hive and nearly _dying_ because of it–”

“We _all_. _nearly. died._ Not just you! Elias is preaching this weekend away as team-building _bullshit;_ our team-building _was_ that attack! We were _all_ there. We _all_ went through it. _Together,_ Jon. Now we’re all trying to cope, and instead, you’re running around like a fucking lunatic–” 

Jon shoots back. “I _am_ coping–”

_“Bullshit.”_

“I’m coping the best I can, then, how’s _that?”_

“It’s not _good enough.”_

_“I know.”_ He bites the inside of his cheek, but he can’t stop from hurling the words back. “I know, I’ve been told, if you’ve forgotten, all of you have found _various_ ways to impress that upon me–”

“Then, _fix it,”_ Tim hisses.

“I _can’t.”_ It's true that he’s been trying to; he’s aware of how tiring the paranoia is for them, and it’s doubly so for him. He’s tired of thinking the world is out to get him, but what else is he supposed to think when it’s _true?_

“Exactly.”

Tim’s response is so very matter-of-fact that it throws Jon, momentarily. He loses track of his thoughts, and whatever reply had been percolating on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he turns his head on the pillow to eye at him a bit.

“You can’t fix it yourself. So stop trying.” Tim scowls. “There’s things out there trying to kill you. _Wow._ You’re not special anymore, Jon, there’s shit trying to kill _all_ of us at the Institute. But _we’re_ not the threat. We’re not trying to kill you, you stupid _fuck,_ so stop treating us like the enemy. None of us have our shit together, none of us, we’re just relying on each other to keep our pieces together so we don’t _fall apart_ like you are. Stop the holier-than-thou act, stop pretending we all aren’t _scared,_ stop ignoring the fact we all have _nightmares_ and let someone else do something about it for a change.”

Jon thinks he must still be a bit too asleep for the lecture, after all. His head is spinning. For as much as Tim loves to talk, Jon sometimes unwittingly doubts his ability to say anything useful. Even if he doesn’t want to hear it. Especially if he doesn’t, even. So it’s a bit difficult to come up with a response, after all that.

Jon only manages three words in reply. They come out sarcastic. He wonders if that’s a defense mechanism, and knows that it is. “Are _you_ offering?”

He expects a reply, expects it to be hurled back with all the poison and bitterness that’s been plaguing them for weeks and weeks and weeks. But then Tim only shrugs, and Jon feels the fight drain out of him again.

“If it stops you being a conspiracy nutter,” Tim says. “At least, if it stops you being a ‘my associates are trying to kill me’ conspiracy nutter, anyway. Trust me–” Jon squirms, because he doesn’t think he’s _capable_ of trusting _anyone_ at this point– “I still _definitely_ want to strangle you, but I don’t want your goddamn blood on my hands. I’ve got bigger problems. _We’ve_ got bigger problems.” 

“I…” _am so tired._ Truly. For all of the sleep from late afternoon to now, Jon’s still, impossibly tired. Or maybe not so impossibly. He’s been that tired for awhile. No amount of sleep will probably cut that exhaustion, but he keeps trying. Hoping. Lying. 

He isn’t quite sure what it is about lying in bed next to Tim that’s breaking down his uncertainties– but then, he supposes he does know. It is, plain and simple, _comfort._ It’s the same reason Martin can get a few honest words out of him when he brings him tea. Comfort from human interaction, something Jon is forgetting these days, even though his mind is still tenuously clinging onto the fact that he can still have it, Somewhere. Somehow. Like now, from Tim… who probably _isn’t_ trying to kill him, suspiciously signing on to work at the Institute apropos of nothing notwithstanding.

Jon _is_ tired.

“… wouldn’t know where to begin,” he says without thinking, and drags his hands up to scrub at the exhaustion pressing heavy on his eyes.

He wonders if Tim had been expecting that reaction. Probably not. Either way, they’re both silent for a long while.

“Probably just this,” Tim does say eventually. “It’s a good place to start, right? He sent us out here to relax. _Wellness.”_ He scoffs. “It’s still early. Sleep for awhile longer. You can even go back to cuddling me, if you want.”

It’s sarcastic, but Jon shifts his arm from his eyes to glance sideways at him.

Tim rolls his eyes, but his voice is a little more quiet when he says “you’re not the only one with nightmares.”

_Right,_ Jon thinks.

“And you’re not the only one who’s tired.”

The same words from the afternoon prior. Jon hesitates, and then rolls over to tuck himself back into the impossible warmth Tim seems to radiate. Because sleep sounds good. Because warmth sounds nice. “Take a nap,” he mutters, and swears Tim almost sounds like a shadow of his old, gleeful self when he replies.

“Yeah, sure, boss. Whatever you say.”

He comes back lax from the spa and, for the first time in a long time, he thinks Tim is genuinely _happy_ as he laughs at him.

“Shut _up…”_ Jon says it without any real conviction. He’s never gone to a spa before, and he’s certainly never had a _massage;_ the nature of the thing had nearly convinced him to spend the last day in Bristol in their hotel room, but Tim had talked him down on premise of the sauna and it had gone downhill from there.

In a good way, the best way, he supposes, and sags into the chair.

“You look _wrecked,”_ Tim announces gleefully, like Jon doesn’t _feel_ wrecked, in all good ways, like he hadn’t just spent the past three hours with his mind clicked off– something that, for all of his troubles, he can’t _exactly_ remember having happened before. Not in this regard.

It’s… _nice._

So is Tim, when he laughs and loses the stress of the past handful of months, and looks at him like maybe Elias’s little _team-building_ plan is actually _working._ He doesn’t say that. He does, however, give part of the truth. “It’s… good,” he admits. “It was nice, oddly.”

It _is_ odd to feel like he doesn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders. For a moment– the past three hours– Jon feels light. Buoyant, maybe, and the threats from the Institute and the memory of Jane Prentiss are still there, but far enough away that they don’t sweep him away in the undertow and… yes. Nice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, and he looks light, too. “See what happens when you stop running in circles? Stop being oversuspicious and start being orgiastic instead.”

Jon lacks the proper emotional capacity to respond in any way other than a halfhearted eye roll, and draping further into the chair.

He stumbles through the rest of the evening, much to Tim’s amusement, thumbs and fingers and a special kind of exhaustion he hasn’t let himself feel in… an eternity. He tries not to focus on how he’s spent the majority of this weekend _sleeping,_ and very nearly collapses into bed.

Tim’s _still_ laughing, and Jon does his best to pretend like he cares.

“Shut up,” he repeats, again, and he’s lost track of how many times he’s said it without conviction tonight. Once when he’d gotten back to the room, a handful of times as Tim kept pestering him with staying hydrated, another when he’d fumbled his phone charger from the outlet and straight under the bed, again when… no, Jon’s lost track. But it doesn’t matter this time. He doesn’t care. It’s a harmless facade, this time. 

“Can’t believe you’ve never had a massage before,” Tim says, and gathers Jon at his side without asking this time. “I mean, actually, yeah, I can, but _honestly,_ boss, it’s kind of sad.”

“Oddly enough, I’ve never been fond of people touching me.” The irony isn’t lost on him, settled with Tim’s arm about his shoulders. It isn’t lost on Tim, either, who does go nearly imperceptibly still for just a moment. “I _know_ you,” Jon stresses, because he doesn’t quite possess enough strength to say _I trust you._ He doesn’t even trust himself. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “This is different.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It is.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

Jon gives up, letting his head sag against Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

The conversation lapses as Jon drowses-but-not-quite-dozes. Tim isn’t asleep, either, apparently, because he’s the one to eventually break the silence. 

“Still can’t believe this.”

Jon manages some vague noise for him to clarify.

“That our arsehole director sent us to a hotel room with one bed, and now I’m stuck here cuddling Jonathan Sims.”

“Ah.”

“Didn’t peg you as a cuddler, either, but you know what, guess it makes sense.”

Jon bites back a groan of wanting to _sleep,_ and mumbles the question. _“How_ does it make sense?”

“Uh, you try so hard to distance people? Of course you want it when you _can_ have it. Which is probably anytime,” he adds. “You could have stopped being so stone-cold a long time ago.”

“Really couldn’t.”

“You _really_ could’ve. You’re managing now, and hey, look. Nobody’s dead yet.”

Jon can’t be offended over the joke. “It’s only _you,”_ he says instead. _I want to trust you,_ is what he doesn’t say. He wants to trust Tim, and the rest of the archival staff. But he doesn’t think it’s happening today. _It’s only you,_ because it is, and somehow like the massage, that’s okay. Better than, actually.

He stretches. The sheets are cool on his bare toes, and Tim’s shirt smells warm, and woodsy, and something maybe like citrus. He manages a tiny frown, turns his head to breathe deeper.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Jon, did you just _sniff_ me?”

“What is that _smell?”_

“What?” Tim turns his head, but it only runs the effect of him turning his face into Jon’s hair. “If you’re trying to tell me I stink–”

“No,” Jon interrupts, faintly annoyed. “It’s… earthy. Rich, maybe.” Detailing scent is not one of his strong suits, he supposes. 

“The– oh. Frankincense? Probably. I did the aromatherapy thing. Unless you’re smelling something in the lotion.”

“Oh.” Jon breathes out, and then wedges himself in closer.

Tim goes still for a moment– Jon barely notices– then huffs a breath and holds him tighter. “Guess that means you like it, then.”

“It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Tim echoes. “Yeah, sure.” He hesitates– Jon _doesn’t_ notice– and passes his thumb along Jon’s shoulder, rubbing mindless, tiny circles there. “Whatever you say, Jon.”

He inclines his head in a small nod, but doesn’t have anything else to add. He can feel himself dropping off– again, again, _such_ a wasted weekend, so much sleep. But Jon can’t bring himself to much mind, right now. It's a constant, these past few days.

He feels himself doze off, and figures Tim must do the same.

**Author's Note:**

> for emperiocism, because the two of us obviously keep throwing JonTim ideas back and forth, back and forth...... let them cuddle 2k19. thanks, Elias, for shipping it too. the only decent thing he's done in his life


End file.
